Reason Number 17: THIS BOOK

Payback really *is* a mutha. This book is guaranteed to convey some universal truths. I'm going on an adventure tomorrow to buy it (hopefully, at a discount).

Reason Number 16: This Picture

This really doesn't need an explanation.

Reason Number 14: Apple Cake can be better than you've ever imagined, and Brenda Russell peeks from the recesses of your mind and into your itunes

For one microsecond, I'm changing this blog name to reasons TO kill yourself, because I bombed my Spanish midterm, Al Qaeda-style.

It sucks, because I used to be kind of okay at Spanish. Granted, that was like ten years ago, and I haven't done the best job of practicing throughout those ten years (making/ordering flautas or saying things like "tengo tres familias de tortugas en mis pantalones grandes" notwithstanding).

I'm terrible--terrible--at pacing myself during tests, because I'm constantly double-checking literally everything, so by the time I got to the essay (which asked me to be a fake journalist trying to decide how to title an article about how the Chinese were really the first to discover America, which is insulting to begin with: journalism being an obviously inferior form of writing (I kid, and yes, I just said "I kid" as if I were the most pretentious beret-wearing person in the world))<--double parenthetical wtf what is this, Thomas Paine/Edith Nesbit/Sir Walter Scott/my dad?! At any rate, by the time I got to the essay, I had like five minutes left so wrote something completely nonsensical that went something like "Columbus was obviously Italian, and could never be Chinese." Um, fucking duh back to Kindergarten time. Kill.self.

BUT, in spite of colds (one of which I have) and bad grades, there is a light, fluffy, sugary explosion at the end of the st00pid, in addition to The Importance of Being Earnest, which I just started reading for Richard Howard (one of the greatest men on earth, with the best glasses ever, totally gay for Allen Ginsberg forty-odd years ago, but who wouldn't be?).

Smittenkitchen.com has some ridiculously great recipes, apple cake being one of them.

I just made it, and holy hell, it's so delicious I'll never go back to eating real food again, or bother trying to learn something as obviously pointless as the Spanish Language. And by that I mean I'm having it for BREAKFAST tomorrow, and then having an arugula/tuna/tomato salad for lunch.

And if you haven't seen this video, you should go ahead and jump in front of that bus:

Reason Number 13: Alexander Pope is, was, and will always be HAWT

Sephora
HOLIDAY SEASON BLOCKBUSTER AVAILABLE NEXT MONTH FOR ONLY $49.99! (on a sign outside, emblazoned with glittering holly sprigs and falling red-orange-yellow leaves, a model’s face, digitzed, demure, and smiling).

I had run out of my coral-red semi-matte1950s starlet lipstick (the name of which I’d unfortunately forgotten), so I dashed into Sephora, paramount luxury cosmetics supplier. Blinded by space-age lighting bouncing off innumerable reflective surfaces, I scrambled around overly-manicured sales associates in sleek pantsuits, their eyes spidery with mascara. I shielded myself against strategically-placed pyramids of shiny glosses, eyeshadow triads, and exotic, heretofore unmentionable brands like Makeup Forever (forever?), tooth whitening promotional kits, and celebrity-endorsed lip plumping serums designed to create an incessant, indefatigable pout—words like “buxom,” “venomous,” “fusion,” and “immortality” bombarding me at every turn.

Circumventing Dior, I was blocked by a woman—early thirties, at the latest—her shopping bags strewn across the aisle, trampled by bow-legged pre-teens in miniskirts as she frantically slathered her cheeks with a cutting-edge polypeptide moisturizer promising to regenerate the magical underlayer lurking beneath the lackluster, inadequate surface, eradicating wrinkles within three days, tops.

“Excuse me,” I said, shuddering as I turned to face the display of French brand NARS—

“—has the most concentrated pigmentation of any makeup brand in the known world, and you really must try SUPERCLIMAXXX blush, the new take on the beloved original CLIMAXX, imbedded with mirrored particles that really enhance your skin’s natural brightness in ways you wouldn’t even understand,” bellowed a tall saleswoman, lacquered pixie haircut sparkling.
I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the many mirrors lining the walls, and I was aghast at my flattened hair, my uneven complexion, my chapped lips. The perfect red lipstick would help, I thought, and I began snatching different sample shades—reptilian massacre, lucifer’s embrace, razorwire, suicide—“try me,” said suicide, on a sticker, and I opened my mouth, drew on color, puckered, blotted, when I felt a man’s hand on my shoulder.

“I prefer rape myself, as it has bluer undertones,” said the man as he wiped suicide off my lips with a gilded handkerchief, applying glossier, hyper-satured rape with abandon. “Such a velvet quality, in a far more flattering hue!”

I faced the mirror again, and smiled at the perfection achieved, the improved replication of my original coral-red semi-matte1950s starlet lipcolor. He stood next to me, and I marveled at our side-by-side reflections.

He was very small—many inches shorter than me, with a pinched face covered in whitening powder, dotted with pencil-moles shaped like stars. His powdered wig stood nearly two feet tall, and was interlaced with gemstones and Flanders lace and box tortoise combs, dripping with ringlets, and I noticed he was no ordinary man; he was Alexander Pope, arguably the greatest English poet of the 18th century!

“Mr. Pope!” I said, blushing, “it’s an honor, an absolute honor.”

“It is no matter,” he said, “applying cosmetics is a great pleasure of mine, crafting creations with the sweep of a brush, a squirt, a spurt, a dash of a single color manifesting epic loveliness. Your hair, for instance, is lovely but desperately needs enhancement.”

He produced a bottle of volumizing sea salt spray from an embroidered leather pouch attached at the hip to his fitted chartreuse brocaded trousers —“to feign the tousled effects of a stroll along a seaside promenade”—feverishly sprayed the strange faux-salt-air substance, running his tiny hands through my hair.

“But truly,” I said, “Rape of the Lock has always been one of my favorite poems, the mock epic being one of the most intriguing genres, and I’ve always wished I could—”

“Nonsense,” he said, “tilt your head back,” dipping his emerald-ringed index finger into a miniature urn of fig-pear eau de parfum, which he spread liberally all over my neck, unbuttoning my yellow dress to expose my clavicles, shoulders, dripping fig-juice between my breasts as a timpani-rich remix of an early-90’s classic blasted from iridescent speakers designed to blend in with the overall ambience.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked, clutching at his hands, stop, but we were already on the ground, legs splayed between Bliss™ and Urban Decay, and as he struggled to rip off my dress he kicked cosmetics out of their kiosks with his satin buckled pointed-toe shoes, blending brands, travel-size nail polish bottles raining over our heads, a flourish of body glitter pouring from an overturned vat, further powdering his already-saturated wig. I tugged at his curls, pulling him closer as he drew around my nipples, chest, stomach with electric blue liquid eyeliner—hearts, constellations, half-poems. I applied false eyelashes to the corners of his eyes with a minute tube of glue included in the package—“don’t blink,” I said, but before I knew it, he’d slipped off my polka-dotted underpants to get inside me, rubbing his made-up face against my breasts as he pumped.

“I want to ride,” I said, spitting out one of the star-shaped moles that had fallen off his face and into my mouth. I forced him onto his back, maneuvering myself up and down when I noticed a box of brand-new SUPERCLIMAXXX had fallen near my thigh, so I figured what better time to try it, opened the compact, equipped with a well-rendered miniature synthetic-fiber brush, which I rubbed into the pink, spreading it all over his cheeks, “to create the most natural, healthy flush,” I screamed as he pulled my hair. Sweating, he picked up a full-size pony-hair foundation brush, and shoved the long, rounded handle into my mouth. I bit down against the wood, groaning as he resumed his position on top and then proceeded to turn me over, “indeed, from behind,” he said, restraining my wrists. His heavy silk stockings created an almost unpleasant friction against my bare legs.

“I’ve always wanted to know,” I gasped, “how you managed five cantos, from lapdogs to spleens and back, letting tea-kettles walk all the while.”

He pulled out and came all over my back.

Reason Number 12: There is a possibility, however slim, that khakis might look good, when properly paired.

Also, Baltimora is awesome.  There's no better song than Tarzan Boy for:

 (a) organizing one's room

 (b) trying on khakis that have heretofore sat, limp and lifeless, at the bottom of a crowded closet, alien to the rest of one's wardrobe, a reminder of elementary school and USPS uniforms, not to mention investment bankers.

 (c) taking unflattering, bad pictures of oneself (see photo, left)

 (d) practicing Spanish with flashcards

 (e) writing (sometimes)

Perhaps that is a hyperbole; Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Rachmaninov, Pavement, and Lionel Richie also suffice in some of the above contexts.

I think I have anger management problems.  Or maybe I just hate nine out of ten people.  Is this hyperbole, too?  I honestly don't know.

I inhaled cayenne pepper today for reasons I don't want to get into, and my face is still suffering for it.

Thomas Love Peacock, author of Nightmare Abbey (1817 I think?) and contemporary of Percy B. Shelley (who totally suxxx) is unexpectedly fucking wonderful and has inspired me to read more little known early 19th century novels. 

I have a feeling khakis might come back, in a big way.  Aside from the fact that they exude an aura of stuffiness and social anxiety and are generally the least flattering pants on the planet.  I still want to wear mine with pride, though.  And a comfy plaid shirt.  

Reason Number 11: Even Marc Jacobs fucks up, big time

Marc by Marc Jacobs sucks hardcore balls this season.  Danny and I were enjoying the glorious and amazing early fall weather we've been lucky enough to have this past week or so by taking a monster walk around the city, presumably trying to locate nameless outdoor markets in Chelsea but often ending up in strange places, like THE MOST ABSURDLY TERRIBLE STARBUCKS IN EXISTENCE (where we waited twenty-five minutes for our drinks because some dickwad wearing earrings that looked like hubcap rims kept forgetting what we ordered, even though we ordered tall lattes, seemingly the simplest drink you can ask for at Starbucks these days, aside from plain old coffee--black) located near Times Square (our first mistake) beneath a dreary overpass, as well as the Marc by Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street.

First of all, the store itself was moved.  It used to be a spacious men's/women's store that was fairly pleasant to walk around in, but recently (don't know how recently, because it's not often that I find myself in the position to purchase Marc Jacobs clothing) the men's and women's sections were put in separate buildings. The men's store is now ridiculously tiny and difficult to maneuver through because of endless crowds of tourists eating Magnolia cupcakes (which are infinitely inferior to Sugar Sweet Sunshine cupcakes, or the cupcakes they make at Nettie's Cafe, the fantastic coffee shop/bakery that just opened in my neighborhood).  Most of the merchandise was placed so high you could hardly see it without being either ridiculously tall (like Danny) or in possession of a step stool.  Because the clothing sucks so hardcore this season, though, it was to my benefit that it was so difficult to see and touch.

I very strongly believe that fashion should be unexpected, fun, and not adhere to predetermined dictates.  Almost anything (except sarongs, espadrilles, and non-functional hats) can look good if some thought and experimental fervor is put into it: I'm open to jumpsuits, Dansko clogs, electric colors that make your face bleed, velour, pvc, corduroy overalls, even skorts, as long as the finished product is something you look at and think "wow, I never would have thought that would look good, but how brilliant." 

But, for some reason I can't quite understand, Marc Jacobs decided it was an excellent idea to emblazon at least a third of his men's collection with PEACE SIGNS.  Peace signs.  I understand the man recently got out of rehab, but peace signs?  Not only does it look hideous on bags, t shirts, and sweaters, but it's also the most derivative thing ever in the guise of being fun and cheeky.  It's like his inspiration came from Party City and Spencer's Gifts--he may as well start selling mood rings and yin yang pens with neon pink feathers bursting from the top.

Not to mention everything looked cheap, the fabric felt chintzy--the pants could have been sold at Old Navy.  He also included several shearling coats that looked like you could find them in one of those leather merchant stalls in midtown on a Sunday afternoon stroll following Applebeetinis and a hearty meal at Red Lobster.

The only thing worthwhile in the entire (very crammed) store was an awesome leather tote bag--buttery soft, perfect brown, with a laptop compartment on the front that managed to look sleek and not clunky businessman from suburban Atlanta.  This bag, I might add, was not part of the Marc by Marc collection but the more high-end Marc Jacobs fall line.

 

Story time!

In the hopes that Jason the Grasscutting Teenage Boy might notice me—staring out the kitchen window—when he took a break from his mower, exhaustedly wiping his brow with a paisley rag.

Before he arrived one summer Saturday, I drew a Loreal matte red lipstick dot in the middle of my nose, and whiskers on my cheeks with the cacao dreams Borghese eyebrow pencil Mother received as a gift with purchase at the Macy’s makeup counter, along with a miniature blue pleather backpack I used for phosphorescent dinosaurs and the archaeological misadventures I created from clothespins. “Meow,” I said, taping to a purple headband the ears I’d carefully drawn on the blank underside of the cover of a used-up sketchpad, crayon-coloring the tawny triangles, pink on the inside, cutting them with Mother’s left-handed safety scissors (though I was right-handed). “Hisssss,” I jumped as I pricked my bottom with the safety pin I used to attach my tabby tail.

Headband on, whiskers materialized, I stared into the mirror:
In spite of the hair I had, which was a dull shade of brown, as stringy as hay, and brittle as undercooked pasta, incapable of holding a curl no matter how many hours Mother spent wrapping, re-wrapping the long, limp strands around a small-barrelled iron (“simply the best for curling troublesome hair,” according to Glamour), my hair as a cat was lustrous, wavy, cascading down my back the way a secret waterfall might. My nails were long and pink, and I was lanky and sleek. As a girl, I was smaller than most, with stumpy dimpled hands and legs that remained stocky although at Mother’s insistence I frequently ate powdered chicken noodle soup and pickles for lunch, and when other people’s grandmothers offered me cake at the birthday parties I was rarely invited to, I politely declined in favor of a glass of ice water with a splash of lemon.

RING—the doorbell, a scurry of feet, and I tiptoed to the top of the stairs as mother opened the door to Jason the Grasscutting Teenage Boy. Stealthily, palm-paws sweaty, eyebrow pencil whiskers pricked, I peered around the banister, at Mother, wearing her long, green nightgown that showcased her nipples and a pair of slip-on, square-toed flat shoes with bows on the toes—she made me sit for hours at The Shoe Pavilion while she tried to decide between them and a pair of Sam and Libby slingbacks in beige. I stared at Jason, long blonde-hairy legs, pock-marked face, strange dual-toned voice that made me cringe and glow inside my cat stomach. I watched his mouth move, his chapped lips, which I imagined were framed by minute, sparse hairs, maneuvering around “b-a-c-k-y-a-r-d, m-a-’-a-m,” Mother’s hair-sprayed head bobbing up and down in agreement, yes, yes, the backyard please, door shut, Mother returned to the kitchen, and I attempted descending the stairs on all fours but found it too difficult, so I stood up, a momentary biped, creeping kitchenward, past Father, who lay sprawled among newspapers and empty ice cream bowls on the couch, his head covered by one of the afghans my grandmother knitted for us when her hands still worked.

“I am going,” Mother shouted, wrapping herself in a lightweight teal Talbots cardigan, “to the store for soft drinks, milk, sunscreen, and high-fiber cereal. Father is sleeping. SLEEPING. I’m aware that you like popsicles. Would you like some popsicles?”

I was tempted to say yes; I longed for popsicles, imagining their metallic fruity taste creeping down my throat, the fibrous frozen texture, the sound they made when I split them apart, the stains the grape ones made on my white canvas shoes.

All I could say was “purr.”

“Excuse me?!” said Mother, brandishing her car keys. “Excuse me, but popsicles? I’ll buy popsicles, but just this once.”

“Purr,” I said, but she did not hear me as she left, keys jingling in her hand.

The house was quiet, apart from the clicking of the air conditioner and the hum of the lawn mower outside. I lay on the floor next to Flossie, resident real pet, and she stretched her long cat legs and yawned in the light of the bay window, which provided a perfect view of the backyard and was framed by long, cloth curtains that filled me with a strange kind of dread. Something about the hot air balloon toile pattern made me lonely, the familiar stiff taupe figures waving at the world with vacant cloth-person eyes, reminiscent of the kind of doll that doesn’t come alive with the others when you shut your bedroom door to picnic alone in your Perseverant American Pioneer Lady outfit—complete with calico bonnet and lace breeches, skirts spread over the grass as you eat your heart-shaped marmalade sandwich underneath the knotted cherry tree.

I braced myself against the window, staring at Jason the Grasscutting Teenage Boy as he rounded the backyard, creating strange patterns as he mowed, watched his arm muscles expand as he leaned into the lawn mower, which massacred the small blades of grass. I cracked the window open to smell the fuel intermingled with the fresh, vernal odor of clipped greenery, as reminiscent of summer as puss-filled mosquito bites, Revolutionary War reenactments, encyclopedia-reading, and frog-sounds at night. I stared at the sweat darkening his heather-gray t shirt that probably belonged to his father in the past, and wondered what men smell like when they approach you after a long day of cutting grass and peering into microscopes and driving large automobiles, or planes, and it was probably like firewood, or crushed ladybugs, or aftershave lotion, but softer, saltier, somehow, like unlaundered underpants.

I was imagining that someday when I was older and no longer stumpy we could live in a mushroom-shaped house and fly biplanes over the Kalahari Desert, or maybe own a chocolate factory in the poppy-coated fields of Lichenstein, and he would buy me estate jewelry and I would wear acid pink Dior lipstick and would never have to wait for my mother to decide whether she wanted to go to Aerosoles or J.C. Penney, and I would learn to metalsmith and make him pocket knives and cutlery out of geodes and agates when suddenly, as he neared the sawtoothed oak tree, a swarm of hornets emerged from the ground, overtaking him. Arms flailing, he ran towards the house.

I jumped up. “Dad!” I screamed, “Dad!” running into the living room, pulling the blanket off his head, but he belched and turned over.

I heard a desperate knock at the back porch door, and I opened it, staring straight up at Jason the Grasscutting Teenage Boy, sweat-drenched and covered in welts. I motioned for him to follow me inside, and he sat at the kitchen table in one of the strange anthropomorphic chairs Mother bought during a brief but frantic garage sale phase she went through when I was a toddler. Trembling with bewilderment, I felt my face flush as I scoured the medicine cabinet for some kind of insect bite ointment or salve, cotton balls, bandaids. I heard him groan with pain, and the low sounds his throat made sent a series of confusing shivers down my neck.

“Calamine lotion,” I said, desperately, “is all we have.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

It’s fine it’s fine it’s fine echoing in my head as I edged closer, clutching the lotion and cotton balls tightly, feeling the tiny bottle grow moist with the heat from my hands, and I realized I’d altogether forgotten I was a cat, or supposed to be a cat as I bent down, screwed open the lid, poured the pink powdery fluid onto a clean cotton swab. I wanted so badly to make eye contact, but all I could do as I swabbed the welts on his legs was stare at his Tretorn nylite sneakers, crusted with dirt and motor grease. I wished I had access to those sneakers when his feet weren’t in them, to smell them, push my small hands into the moist, sweaty darkness molded to his insole, to measure my feet against them when no one else was watching, deep inside my closet fort lined with human-sized blue rabbits and long billowy nightgowns.

“Um,” I said, “you can do the rest,” motioning to his arms, neck, face, wondering why I swabbed his legs for him in the first place, and whether he thought poorly of me for doing so, whether he was confused, whether he knew the way I thought about his shoes.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Still kneeling, I looked up, noticing the whiteheads that lined the crevice beneath his nose.

“Your ear,” he said.

I gasped.

“Your ear is broken.” He reached out, pulled the headband out of my hair, and propped up the paper cat ear, which had fallen flat. He smiled and handed it back to me.

Dumbfounded, I clutched the headband as the door opened and Mother entered, her arms full of groceries.

Reason Number 10: No Walk Through Columbia's Gates Anita Baker Can't Fix

I haven't updated this blog in at least three months, and there are a few reasons for this (none of which have anything to do with not killing yourself, especially):

1. I've been avoiding all things related to word-production in preparation for (avoidance of) the inevitable, looming beginning of graduate school (September 2nd).

2. I've been planning my wedding, geez.

3. I'm bad at commitments (which, fortunately, doesn't apply to aforementioned soon-to-be-husband Ryan C. Daley).

4. Vodka.

Getting your MFA in Creative Writing at Columbia University is pretty much everything I anticipated it would be, and then some.  Read: reading, EXTREMEXXXX DEADLINEZ, verbosity, people trying to impress other people, not being able to get into a Spanish class because of the Core Curriculum requiring every undergraduate to take a foreign language, and, of course, opportunities galore.  Joking aside, being back at school is better than the best pumpkin muffins or warmed Oban with a cinnamon stick--plunk--in a mug with the cutest kitten ever painted on the side, and is pretty much the opposite of genocide set to Fall Out Boy.  Even when I feel like I'm going to burst into flames/hide in New Jersey/not be able to read every single book I'm assigned because there are so many books/workshop writing samples I'm assigned to read I'm still ridiculously happy in that stupid, silly, wildflower-twirling-scattering way you are when you've won your first game of Candy Land.

In preparation for classes full of people who are smart smart smart, I like to walk through THE GATES after climbing the six thousand flights of stairs that barricade Columbia from Harlem while listening to the stupidest, worst song possible.  Each day I challenge myself to find something more heinously awful than the day before.  The first day it was an accident--I was listening to a Taylor Dayne song (***NOT an accident***) and afterwards, "Higher Love" by Steve Winwood shuffled to the forefront of my ipod from the murky backwater encompassed by the Top 100 Hits of every year ever with which my dear friend Jay provided me, and I was like "It's totally awesome that I'm listening to 'Higher Love' by Steve Winwood in a giant crowd of ivy league students heading to their Machievellian Theories of Darwinian Post-Structuralist Proto-Punk seminar." But then it's like, c'mon I can do better than that.  Steve Winwood isn't nearly as bad as, say, Anita Baker, who I listen to regularly while walking past places like MoMA.

I spend many days wondering what is as soul-crushingly dull as an Anita Baker classic?  Honestly.  Except maybe "Pink Cadillac," possibly (maybe definitely) the worst song of all time, in all its forms (and there are many).  Oh shit, and Lenny Kravitz.  AGDSLKF and Melissa Etheridge!  I have a whole two years to walk through the library stacks while vomiting/laughing to "Come to My Window" before settling down to some good, healthy literature.

Reason Number 9: Other People Have Totally Been There, Done That

A serious post, coming your way!

I was thinking about my friend Amy the other day after being invited to the 2008 Renfrew Reunion (which is way too depressing and weird for me to handle this year), and I realized I need to (need to) write a semi-autobiographical but not really, long-ish story full of humor and hijinx about my time there.  

I'm sick of novels/documentaries about eating disorders and how self-indulgent, melodramatic and exploitative they are.  Like, look at how secretly, freakishly glamorous this woman is for eating two apples per day, eventually reaching an unprecedented low weight of -45.73 pounds!  And then, one day, on the verge of death, BAM, she starts eating again and is now completely better, even thought she's still 20 pounds underweight and on a low-carb diet.

It's the same fucking story every time, and (in my opinion) isn't helpful to anyone reading it.  It intrigues non-sufferers and makes those who are suffering covet thinness even more.

What they don't tell you is that your mind wastes away too, your thoughts captivated by unnecessary drivel, starved into submission.  It can be a slow, corrosive process that sucks the life out of you in ways you wouldn't imagine.  I couldn't write for two years.  I could hardly read ten pages without being exhausted.  I lost friends, wasted summers.  

Agh.  And for something so silly.  Thankfully, not too silly to make into a story.  Or perhaps just silly enough for the best kind of story?

Reason Number 8: Floriduh

What a great vacation, though I don't think I'll be eating at Chili's again anytime soon.  Especially since everyone on their waitstaff is on meth and/or is infected with impetigo.

But whatevz, it's cool.  Their fajitas are better than some.

While we were waiting for our flight at Laguardia, some crazy with a kid asked us to watch his bag, which was large and plastic (as in: a jumbo-sized garbage bag) and full of burger king, diapers, and windbreakers.  I was so stunned that someone actually had the nerve to ask me the question no one dares ask at an airport because there are instructions against asking this question blaring from the loudspeakers every five seconds that I just nodded and hoped nothing would explode, or that if it did explode, it would be a small explosion, like a roman candle or a bottle rocket, pretty and unobtrusive, killing no one, providing only pleasure, like snacktime and freedom.

Anyways, I just got back and I have the final MFA rundown.

Ins:

Columbia

New School

Montana

Outs:

Iowa

Texas

Washington

Waitlisted:

NYU

I'm pretty okay with everything.  In fact, I'm more than okay.

Reason Number 2: Redux Mariah Effing Carey Whut

As random as this may be for anyone reading this blog who doesn't know me, I've got to say that Mariah Carey's self-titled first album is enough to part the clouds in my overcast horizon any day.
Heart-rending, cataclysmic soul-transcending ballads collide against fast-paced morsels of early 90's girl rap, the phrasing at times indecipherable, at times introspective, all the while interspersed with healthy doses of true wisdom. Re: love really does take time, as any thinking person knows all too well.

I just realized there is no Reason Number 2

In which case, I don't know what to tell you.

I can think of a few viable substitutes, such as: fur coats, Lanvin's Spring Collection, the possibility of invisibilities, and learning a foreign language. You can always get better at speaking Arabic, or understanding the Earth's Geological Mysteries.

All of the above devoid of a self-harming gesture of any sort. Not even a scratch.

Reason Number 7: Memoirs?

You know, maybe writing a memoir isn't such a bad idea after all. Only if it contains a colon followed by a qualifier (A Memoir being the the most poignant, and My Story being a close second) and is called something like: "Gathering Moss: A Memoir" or "Flailing Sycamores: A True Story of Grave Loss." "Magic Johnson: My Life" isn't so bad either. I mean, being 24 and not a professional athlete with a t-cell-obliterating virus, I feel like I don't have as much license to do such a thing as, say, a 50-year-old HImalayan sexual predator or an aging ex-model with a busted septum, inferior bone density, and a broken heart. I have some skeletons in the closet, I suppose (HA! No pun intended), so it's possible I could totally probably make it work, or at least embellish it to my liking. Literary lies=okay by me! A bad, fake memoir is still better than lots of things, like: The Tyra Banks Show, 311, and Urban Outfitters.

I really am kidding, though. I think for now I'll stick with hedgehog rape and Mall Sex. Until I become a drug trafficker for LA-based gangs and/or go to rehab (again).

Flossie killed the mouse we thought was a rat yesterday. RCD gave her a delicious fish-tasting treat for her kill, and she savored every delectable morsel of blood, sea, and victory.

So that's another thing to be thankful for. Actually, two things: (1) my cat, although developmentally disabled, can still kill things like a normal cat, and (2) as far as I know, the rat problem is of no import anymore. Hooray!

In other news, after fifteen years of hating bacon, I like it again. Quite a lot, actually.

Reason Number 6: A rat infestation is better than a snake infestation (or AIDS!)

I hope we have a panther infestation on the day I get my Columbia rejection letter!  That'll put things into perspective.

Whatevz, I eat rats like you for breakfast!  With Irish oatmeal and clover honey!

Reason Number 5: Not Having To Move To Iowa

I got my first rejection letter!  From the Iowa Writer's Workshop.  I would say I'm devastated, but at least I don't have to deal with snow-covered cornfields, friendly Midwestern folk, or back pocket-less Bongo jeans for the next two years.  Because, you know, that's exactly what it would be like.

I like how rejection letters always insist on how much talent you have, how the admissions staff LOOOOVED reading your manuscript, but how there were just so many applicants, and they can only choose X of them.  When what they should be saying is: 

"Your writing is just not to our taste, and there were so many more commercially viable candidates in your place, some of whom have affiliations with our alumni, and it was really hard to choose between a heartrending story about overcoming cancer written by an ex-con paratrooper whose older brother is Dave Eggers and the hilarious rehab novella written by an orphan from Taipei who doesn't know any of our faculty but who is Flannery O'Connor's great-great-transgendered grandchild.  We're sorry.  Try again next year!!!"

I'm going to go stick my head in a toilet full of whiskey and blood.  <3

Reason Number 4: Really, really bad jokes

And not even like "What's the hardest thing about Rollerblading? 

Two nights ago, taking a break from reading my Medieval Bestiary (which is the best book ever, and I will discuss it at length in my next post), I decided to google "bad jokes."  After a really hard day of contemplation and being on hold while calling Spirit Airlines and realizing you can't speak Spanish anymore and rejection letter fears and mean stares from girls on the subway who hate the knee-high lace-up boots you bought at Camper last fall (just because they look like they're hard to take off at night, which is downright st00pid because they zip up the side),  all you really need are some racist, misogynistic, lawyer child molester priest jokes to make everything disappear, to make you feel like those girls on the subway were actually talking about how hot you look in your boots, and how you're the best writer/seamstress/singer-songwriter/Blue Man Group member in the world, etc.                 

While seeking bad jokes and concocting a turkey sausage/farfalle pasta combination, I came across this website, which is about as funny as Ray Romano's gallbladder.  I have no idea who made up this site, but they are obviously very bad at speaking English.

Here's an example of one of the "political jokes" on the site:

-Why do govern personnel from the minister have no right to look through the windows in the morning?

-Because they will have nothing else to do in the evening!

Here's one called "Intimate Place":

A couple goes to an intimate place.  She says to him:

"Do you want me do take my panties off or to spit out my gum?"

Reason Number 3: Strawberry Rhubard Jam On Sale For 75 Cents at Marshalls in Harlem

Yes, the title is so true I could kill a kitten.  And by kill a kitten I mean love kittens, because who wouldn't, except of course for the most abhorrent kitten haters on the planet.  

I went to Harlem last night to (a) visit a dear friend and (b) make tuna salad (without mayonnaise, obviously) and decided to adventure to the Marshall's on 125th Street before settling down for fish and greenery.  Unlike Target and The Supermarket, Marshall's is usually a poorly-lit cesspool of last season's fleece-lined boots and mysterious, half-empty shampoo bottles.  But this time, to my surprise, I came across wonderful things: strange sculptures of gospel choirs and Easter bonnets and enormous bejeweled jester heads to hang on your door (c-r-e-e-p-y), in addition to intriguing jams on sale for less than a dollar!  You can't even find erasers at the motherfucking DOLLAR STORE for under a dollar.

It was totally worth every beleaguered, end-of-the-long-day foot drag along the dull linoleum floor.

DANCE DANCE HIBERNATION

Other seventh grade girls were squirrels, but in spite of prenatal gel caps and acorn pancakes I could never grow a tail.  I gnawed the edges of magazines decrying fashion's turn toward feral, prodded my nipples and wished there were more.  I stared from the ground, offering sodden sandwiches, cups of birdseed they ignored to leap sycamores and pluck glow-in-the-dark fleas from furry undersides, smoking pinecones, braiding.  Avoiding shaving, I sought oversize mohair sweaters, to hide my opposable thumbs.   I chased them from the mall to the playground, set out pink lipstick tubes and audiocassettes and sequined training bras, twizzlers, tampons, high-heeled shoes, painted nails, waiting--desperate--as they sneered at my smooth legs and gigantic brain.

Self-Mutitillation or: Reason Numero Uno, and yes I just said Numero Uno

After visiting the Cloisters for the second time (taking phone pictures of sinister-looking saints and primitive unicorn faces), I found a ridiculously awesome compendium of Medieval Beasts in the bookstore. I'm pretty sure if I don't buy it on amazon.com, something horrible will happen to me. Like: I won't learn nearly enough about Medieval beasts.

I also decided to start a blog about the following things:
-WRITINGS of all kinds (mine)
-books I've read (love! hate! ambivalence!)
-gasp-worthy observations, possibly involving the most important matters: Whitney Houston, The Boer War, and/or Express for Men (no thanks!)
-how much I dislike blogs, my dislike being a manifestation of fear or otherwise (there are, of course, blogs I enjoy wholeheartedly, and I may discuss these at length another time)
-families (yuck! and by yuck I mean infesting restaurants nationwide!)
-learning to polish my nails without getting polish all over my fingers (perhaps the most difficult task of all)
-eating disorders (fashion!)
-food porn (recipes!)
-learning new things, which I've heard is always a good thing
-Bill O'Reilly's new cookbook!

All of this while shunning anything even remotely hinting at politics at all possible costs. Not because I don't care, but because others can and will do it better. And more power to them!

Sometimes, pictures will happen.

Sometimes, tears.

So many reasons. So many I could punch my fists through a wall and make a sandwich!